


For Each Ecstatic Instant

by generalsleepy



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Abuse, Hurt/Comfort, Inspired by Poetry, M/M, Scars, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-18
Updated: 2012-11-18
Packaged: 2017-11-18 22:45:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/566107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/generalsleepy/pseuds/generalsleepy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lithuania tries to adjust to life with America, after escaping from Russia.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For Each Ecstatic Instant

For the thousandth time, Lithuania’s eyes traced the narrow veins of the large crack on the wall. His bound hand dug into his chest, prickling from lack of circulation. The heat under his stomach contrasted with the cold on the ball of his feet, which struggled to find purchase on the chilly stone floor.

The faint whoosh of air being parted reached Lithuania’s ears. Every muscle tensed in fearful expectation.

He thought that he was beyond the point of screaming, but as the thong of the long whip dug into his flesh, Lithuania couldn’t bite back a primal cry that was wrenched from his throat.

His fingers gripped the sheets tightly and his feet stamped and writhed as the strip of leather was dragged back across his torn skin. He barely noticed the high, keening, babyish sound issuing from his ragged throat. He managed a short cough as the whip flicked back across his side, still painfully, but his less force. 

He kept his eyes firmly on the crack in the wall, as he had done over the course of the many sleepless nights in this same bed he was now bent over, stripped to the waist.

If he listened very intently, he could hear Russia’s heavy, labored breathing.

Another splitting blow made Lithuania choke and spasm. He bit down hard on the sheet to stop himself from doing the same to his cheek or tongue. He waited, quivering, for the next blow.

Instead, he heard the sound of heavy footfalls, and then felt a shift as Russia sat on the bed next to him. He didn’t want to look up, didn’t think that he could look up into that innocent face, smiling as if they were just two friends, sharing an evening together.

Russia made that impossible, when he reached out a large hand and stroked Lithuania’s hair. His hand was shaking slightly, and he was panting from the effort of the beating. 

“Where are your pretty eyes, Toris?” Russia said in his singsong voice. He backed up the kind question with a sharp tug on Lithuania’s hair. Lithuania slowly raised his head from his arms. Only when the cold air made contact with his face did he realize that he had been crying.

His eyes drifted up to Russia’s hesitantly, as if the sight would burn him. Russia was smiling sympathetically as he petted Lithuania. “How do you feel?” he asked, as if he actually cared.

Lithuania didn’t respond, and apparently Russia didn’t expect him to, because he just cocked his head to the side and continued to smile, a touch sadly, as he threaded his fingers through Lithuania’s hair. Lithuania looked back at the crack in the wall.

“I hate to hurt you, Lithuania,” Russia said. Lithuania should have known that was coming. Hadn’t he heard it innumerable times before, whenever Russia’s fist slammed across his face, or leather was twisted around his wrists or throat? Whenever Lithuania did something wrong, or when Russia was just plain scared.

Whenever Lithuania tried to escape, as he was now.

“I’m trying really hard to make things better,” Russia said earnestly. “I’m really trying. We’re going to fix everything. He said so.” Lithuania vaguely wondered who the ‘he’ was. Gorbachev? Chernenko? Was Russia still having conversations with Lenin? He wouldn’t put anything past the old nation.

“But, then you try and go away,” Russia continued. His grip tightened, not enough to hurt, but enough to remind Lithuania that it could. “You start talking about independence. About breaking up our Union.” A faint childlike confusion was slowly creeping into Russia’s voice. Lithuania had grown to know what that change meant. He braced himself.

“These stunts of yours. These… hysterics. You know you shouldn’t be, Toris. Do you want America to see you behaving like this, then come and separate us?”

_Yes! God, yes! More than anything. Please, let him notice…_

Russia’s gloved hand slipped from Lithuania’s hair, then pressed gently on his back. Lithuania grunted in pain, tightening his fist until his stubby fingernails dug into the flesh of his hand. Russia pushed a bit harder and Lithuania cried sharply.

“I won’t let him,” Russia said, voice as cheerful as before. “I’ll make him go away, and I won’t let him hurt us. Everything’s going to be all right.”

The pain was making Lithuania’s eyes water. Russia’s usual rant about ‘keeping them safe’ didn’t hold much interest anymore. _Just keep looking straight ahead. Straight ahead._

“You don’t want America to pull us apart, do you, Toris?” Russia pressed. Lithuania could hear the desperation hiding under that singsong voice, like a child, frightened, but not understanding why. The voice trying to reconcile how wonderful Russia knew his system was, and how he knew it was all falling apart.

To Lithuania, every word of that voice was a quiet victory 

Lithuania remained silent, concentrating on keeping his breathing even.

Evidently, that was the wrong decision. Russia’s fingers tightened, before he pulled back and slapped Lithuania’s injured back with full force. Lithuania screamed in agony.

While he was still reeling, Russia got up from the bed, grabbed Lithuania’s wrists and dragged him halfway to his feet, before flipping him over and slamming him back onto the bed. Lithuania sobbed as the rough sheets scraped along his raw, bleeding cuts.

Meanwhile, Russia gripped his thin ankles and held them closely together. He pulled a nylon cord from inside his voluminous coat and began to bind Lithuania to the foot of his bed. 

“Stupid Toris,” he said, voice affectionate even as he tightened the cord brutally. “Stupid, silly Toris might try and run away if we don’t make him stay.”

Lithuania tried to ignore Russia’s cheerful burbling, concentrating on not moving too much, even as his body shivered uncontrollably in the frigid cold.

Russia placed a hand on Lithuania’s foot, gently stroking as he smiled sweetly down at his captive. Lithuania blinked as he watched his own blood smeared over his instep. He felt briefly odd, almost detached, as if he were watching all of these horrible things happening to someone else in a film. He wondered if that was an effect of the cold.

“Good night, comrade,” Russia said, as if there was nothing wrong with his leaving Lithuania tied to his bed, half-naked, with no blankets. Lithuania watched as the large nation walked across the room, and then turned off the lights without warning. He listened to the door open, close, and lock, and then Russia stamp away.

Lithuania took a deep, shaky breath as he looked out into the impenetrable darkness. The only positive was that his back was beginning to go numb in the harsh, biting cold.

He should have known that Russia wouldn’t let this go easy, wouldn’t admit when it was over. That didn’t make the beatings, the terror, the rumbling in his stomach any less miserable, though. 

He wondered if America would remember him. His stomach fluttered in uncontrollable excitement as he thought about the other country, and the possibility of rescue.

When he looked back over the past few decades, the brightest memories were those that he spent with America. He could picture the tall, blond country’s grin, his goofy laugh, the confident and earnestly sincere way he spoke, the way he would pull Lithuania into bone-breaking hugs when he was happy, how he insisted that Lithuania always take an extra blanket to bed, even when Lithuania promised that he wasn’t too cold.

Everything about America was warm, always comforting and genuine. Russia was cold, dangerous, unpredictable. With Russia, even his episodes of cheerfulness and kindness were tainted by the knowledge that they were purely transitory. Violence and helpless anger waited just around the corner for the tiniest of triggers. Then, everything went out the window.

Lithuania knew that he couldn’t depend on any other country to rescue him from his sorry state, but that didn’t stop him from wishing with all of his irrational heart that brave, shining, imperfect America would swoop in and save him from this fading madman.

A sob caught him by surprise. He caught the second one in his throat before it escaped. _Courage_ , he imagined America’s voice saying. _No matter what happens, be brave._

“Goodnight, Alfred,” Lithuania breathed in a voice that didn’t rise to a whisper.

He shut his eyes, ignoring the cold and pain, and dreamed of heroic rescue.

* * *

“Um, Toris? Man? Are you okay?”

Lithuania slowly became aware of the voice calling to him, faint and indistinct, like a voice on the other end of a tin-can-and-string telephone. For a moment, he struggled to remember who was speaking and why they could be asking for him.

“Toris…?”

“Mm… Alfred?” he mumbled, opening his eyes and blinking away the sleepy blurriness. America’s face slowly came into focus, looking down at him in concern. Lithuania realized that he was lying in a large, white feather bed, surrounded by a mound of fluffy blankets and pillows. America was sitting on the bed next to him and his hand was on Lithuania’s shoulder.

America let out a relieved sigh, breaking into a smile. “You’re awake. G’morning.”

“Morning,” Lithuania said. He tried to sit up, but America’s hand on his shoulder and the faint ache in his still-drowsy body kept him from going far. He noticed, for the first time, the wooden tray resting on America’s knees. A mug and a plate covered by a napkin rested on the tray.

“You were thrashing around and frowning,” America explained, kneading Lithuania’s shoulder gently. “Bad dreams?”

Lithuania blinked, breathing slowly and deeply. “I don’t remember,” he said finally.

The look on America’s face said that he understood the lie, and the reason behind it, as well as Lithuania did. Lithuania knew that he would be having dark dreams about Russia for a long time. Still, America brightened and picked up the tray. “Okay. Well, anyway, I brought you some breakfast.”

“Thank you, Alfred. But, you didn’t need to.”

America shrugged. I don’t mind,” he said pleasantly, as he propped Lithuania up slightly, then placed the tray on the smaller country’s lap. “You need to eat a big breakfast, if you’re going to get your strength back.” He punctuated the statement by playfully ruffling Lithuania’s hair, before pulling away the napkin.

Lithuania’s eyes widened a bit at the huge stack of brown, fluffy waffles, drowned in butter and syrup. He glanced up at America, saw the other country smiling at him a bit anxiously. Lithuania smiled back, and picked up his knife and fork.

“Is that all right?” America asked, as soon as Lithuania finished chewing and swallowing his first bite of breakfast.

Lithuania nodded. “Yes, thank you so much, Alfred. For everything.”

America shrugged and laughed. “I told you, Toris. It’s no trouble in the least.” His smile softened and he placed a hand on one of Lithuania’s knees. “After what you’ve been through, I’m glad to help.”

They shared a smile. America gave a nervous, little laugh and gestured towards the plate with his shoulder. “Keep eating,” he said cheerfully.

Lithuania quickly ate another bite of waffle, relishing the sweet taste in his mouth, already feeling his stomach warm. He coughed, so that he would have an excuse to wipe at his eyes. He didn’t think that America would be very impressed to see him crying over something as simple as food.

It was all so unfamiliar, good food, warm blankets, a country that treated him with basic respect and kindness. It was like a dream.

Sometimes, Lithuania would be seized by the crushing fear that this life in America’s house was the dream, and the reality was his nightmares, where he was still trapped with Russia. 

It was a horrifying idea, and Lithuania didn’t like to dwell on it.

He picked up his mug and sipped the black coffee, the bitter taste forcing him back to reality.

America began speaking again, “So, I don’t really want to go to much into logistics right now, but I figure that you should stay here, until you get back on your feet. Though, if you want, you can stay as long as you like.”

“I don’t want to overstay my welcome,” Lithuania said quickly.

America stopped. “No, of course you won’t. I mean, I owe this to you. A lot.”

“No you don’t,” Lithuania said quietly. “You rescued me after all.”

“C’mon,” America laughed. “What else was I gonna do?”

Lithuania found himself smiling. “I suppose.”

“And, plus,” America added, “I like having you here. I missed it after you left.”

“Me too.”

Again, they smiled warmly at each other, until Lithuania began to feel awkwardness churn in his stomach, prickling behind his ears. Apparently, America did as well, because, he cleared his throat and looked away. Lithuania quickly went back to eating.

“Oh,” America said, “I’ve got something for you.” He leaned over and searched around near his feet. After a moment, he straightened up, holding a newspaper and small book. He proffered the newspaper. “Here’s today’s paper for you if you’re interested, and, I guess, if you don’t want to read that, then I got this book. It’s one of my people’s poetry. It’s kinda stupid, but, I, uh, I didn’t know what you’d like, so I, um…” He laughed.

“Thank you, Alfred,” Lithuania said gratefully, accepting the paper and book. “They’re very nice.” He glanced down at the headline of the paper, something about a political brouhaha of America’s. Absently, he scanned the article, actively ignoring the article to the side. It was something about the bomb, and he could see the letters U.S.S.R. printed clearly in the title.

“Well, um,” America began awkwardly, automatically filling in the silence with noise. “How are you feeling? Better?”

He nodded. “Yes. Much better. I’d forgotten how much I love staying here.”

America grinned. “The place went downhill fast after you left. Honestly, there are rooms that I haven’t even touched, because they got so messy without you.”

Lithuania laughed easily. “When I’m feeling better, I’d love to cook for you again.”

“I’d like that too,” America said sincerely. He gave Lithuania’s knee a gentle squeeze, while the other country continued to eat and idly scan the newspaper. All bad news, though Lithuania thought he preferred that, to the cheerful lies which Russia made his Newspapermen declaim daily to his beaten-down populace, who knew better, but sometimes wished to believe the lie.

But, he wasn’t with Russia anymore. He needed to stop automatically matching every good thing America gave him, with how worse things had been with Russia. . Had the large nation become so powerful a force that he could dominate every area of Lithuania’s life, even after the Union splintered?

He had to live in the present. No Russia, no insanity, no cold rooms and whips. Only sunlight, waffles, and America’s laughter. He had enough problems on his shoulders, without trying to solve those in the past, as well.

After a moment, America stood up. “Well, I don’t want to tire you out. I’ll let you finish your breakfast in peace, and maybe catch some better sleep. Would you like me to come get you for lunch?”

Lithuania nodded. He would have liked for America to stay, if only to keep him grounded in the here-and-now and out of the dark past, but the words wouldn’t seem to come. And, he chided himself, it wasn't fair of him to guilt America into staying by his bedside. The superpower probably had far better things to do than dote on him like a sick child. 

Once Lithuania had finished his breakfast and the parts of the newspaper he could safely read, he curled over and tried to go back to sleep. Shamefully undeniable fear kept him firmly conscious, though.

Awake, he was safe and secure in America’s house. Asleep, he was back in Russia’s domain.

Eventually, he gave up and picked up the poetry book instead, holding the covers and letting it fall open as it would. There was one place where the spine had been especially cracked and worn. Lithuania read the small poem neatly set in the middle of the page.

_For each ecstatic instant_  
We must an anguish pay  
In keen and quivering ratio  
To the ecstasy 

_For each beloved hour_  
Sharp pittances of years—  
Bitter contested farthings—  
And Coffers heaped with Tears! 

Lithuania let the book lie limply in his lap. He felt suddenly awkward and guilty, as if he had been eavesdropping on one of America’s most private conversations. It was said that the window to a nation’s soul was his poetry. Even if this poet wasn’t alive, her ominous words were on America’s mind.

Lithuania wished that he didn’t know that.

* * *

The temperature in the small bedroom seemed to plummet as Russia stared evenly at Lithuania. 

“I’m a sovereign nation,” Lithuania said flatly, the words that he had rehearsed over and over again as he lay awake in bed. “And, I’m going to be one on my own from now on.”

 _And you just try to stop me._ The threat lay unspoken, but quietly understood.

Russia’s expression didn’t change. He simply stared down at the smaller—much, much smaller—nation, looking at him in mildly irritated confusion. Lithuania felt his resolve waver. This was the part he had been dreading. He could fight, he could war for freedom, but now he was battling his way out of the depth of Russia’s madness.

“You’re staying here,” Russia said neatly. “Here, with me.” He smiled as if that solved everything.

Lithuania took a deep breath and shook his head. He closed the suitcase he had been packing and straightened up. “I can’t Russia. I—”

He wasn’t aware of Russia’s fist until after it had smashed into the side of his head. The suitcase dropped from his hand and Lithuania stumbled back against the bed. As lights ran across his eyes, Russia’s hand came down hard over his throat.

Lithuania choked. Blind, primal panic took, and he struggled uselessly against the iron grip. Russia slapped him again, and he finally lay still, rasping in what little air he could.

Russia loomed over him, expression still innocently confused, a hurt, frightened little child. 

“You are with Russia,” he explained simply. “You are with us. Aren’t you happy?”

He underlined his point by pressing closer down on Lithuania, smiling plaintively at him. Lithuania tried to swallow, feeling the strength radiating from the body bearing down on him. Russia could snap his neck as easily as a twig, could crush Lithuania with a twitch of his fingers.

Could blow him off the map by pressing a single red button.

Lithuania shook his head.

He shut his eyes as the fist swung down at him once again.

* * *

After a brief, thankfully dreamless, rest, Lithuania felt strong enough to go down to the kitchen with America for lunch. It was simple cold sandwiches and they ate at chairs at the counter. America poured him a glass of lemonade to go with his food. It was tooth-achingly sweet, but Lithuania wasn’t about to complain.

America still seemed slightly more awkward than usual, but he covered it well with his usual display of bullish cheerfulness. Now, he was going on about sports, a comfortingly substance free topic for both of them. Lithuania let him ramble, just enjoying the sound of the other country’s voice, here and undeniably real.

Lithuania finished the last crumb of his ham-and-cheese sandwich before America. As soon as America was done, Lithuania politely reached over and stacked his plate on top of his own, then stood up to walk to the sink.

“Hey.” America stopped him with a hand on his arm. He reached out and took the plates from Lithuania. “You don’t need to do that.”

“I was just—”

“You don’t work for me anymore,” America said. His hand slid down Lithuania’s shoulder to hold his thin chest. “This isn’t like…”

 _…Russia’s house_ , Lithuania provided internally.

“I mean, you’re only a guest,” America continued. “You’re my guest. I’m glad to have you here.”

America was looking at him earnestly, open blue eyes slightly magnified by his glasses, his cheeks warm and faintly red, his knee pressing against Lithuania’s hip.

Lithuania could feel his breath coming faster. His heart seemed to be beating arrhythmically quickly. He was close enough to smell the sugar on America’s breath. 

He let out a slightly nervous laugh and stepped away from America, leaving the other country’s hand to drop back to his side.

What had that been? Was he really going to start feeling this way towards America, the nation who rescued him, who was nursing him back to health? How pathetic had nearly fifty years of Soviet rule made him?

America just smiled genially, apparently oblivious to the . “So.” He dropped the plates onto the counter. “I’ve got nothing more to do today. You feel up for a walk?”

_Walking. In the garden. I remember that. I remember sitting together sipping coffee and talking wistfully about the past. I remember thinking about that garden, in the middle of one of Russia’s industrial hells. Dreaming about that garden._

He smiled. “Absolutely. Are you sure you don’t want me to clear away the dishes?”

America rolled his eyes. “Oh, for the love of God, Toris.” He laughed and held Lithuania around the waist. 

Lithuania laughed and tried to ignore how America’s arm felt, wrapped around him. Strong and solid and protective. He wanted to curl up inside that grasp and hide, like a helpless child. It took him a moment to recognize the feeling as a heady rush of trust. It had been so long since he had wanted to let his guard down around another country.

But, he also knew, with painful clarity, how dangerous it could be to rely on a pair of strong arms, when Russia still clung to his memory.

* * *

“Alfred, may I ask you something?”

America looked over at Lithuania, smiling. “Sure, Toris. Shoot.”

Lithuania hesitated a moment. He looked down at the thin, dirt path they were following through America’s back garden, watching ants scatter under their shoes. “Alfred, why did you come to rescue me?”

America stopped and stared at him, eyes wide and mouth open. He seemed completely caught off guard, and Lithuania quickly wished he could take back the question, no matter how much it had been eating away at the back of his brain.

America looked away, shoving his hands into his pockets and shrugging. “That’s a stupid question, Toris. You were in trouble. I mean, Russia was… he’s unstable. He would’ve really hurt you if you hadn’t gotten out of there. I hadn’t heard from you in a long while, I knew you were in trouble. I just helped. It’s what anyone would’ve done.”

Lithuania didn’t would have liked to have left the issue there, but something dark inside himself compelled him to continue, “But, well, you’re the one who did it. I suppose, what I mean is, why then and not… before?”

There was a pause. A bird Lithuania couldn’t identify screamed from faraway. “He might have killed you,” America said finally. He didn’t look at Lithuania as he added. “I should’ve helped you earlier.”

“You did,” Lithuania said immediately. The unwonted remorse in America’s voice was unnerving. Lithuania regretted ever bringing it out, and wanted to make it go away as fast as possible.

America shook his head. “Not enough.”

Lithuania wasn’t sure what to say that would assuage America’s guilt. Finally, he decided to simply go with exactly what he had felt over those many years, expressed as nearly as it could be in words. “It was enough for me.”

That worked. America somber expression was dissipated by a small smile that filled Lithuania with elation instantly. 

“I missed you,” he said simply.

“So did I,” Lithuania responded.

America laughed and sped up a bit, and Lithuania had to jog to catch up to him, before he disappeared around a large pink rose bush.

“How are you liking the book?” America asked, clearly changing the subject.

Lithuania went along. “A lot. There are some wonderful poems in there.”

“You can have it if you like.” America looked over his shoulder at Lithuania, grinning happily.

“I couldn’t—”

“Oh, I’ve read each of those a hundred times. You’d get way more out of it than I will. Take it.”

Lithuania laughed. “Alright. When you put it that way.” As much as he hated to admit it, the small amount of strain had him panting and tired, his back steadily aching. Thankfully, there was a small, stone bench nearby, and Lithuania dropped into it easily, and then waited for America to sit next to him.

The superpower was examining the rosebush intently. When Lithuania looked more closely, he could see there was a massive spider web, stretching nearly the whole span of the rosebush, with a fat, yellow spider sitting in the middle. America was wearing a small, fascinated little smile that, in turn, made Lithuania smile as well.

 _“The spider as an artist,”_ America recited quietly, more to himself than anything, Lithuania thought, _“Has never been surpassed. Though—”_

 _“Though, his surpassing merit, is fully certified,”_ Lithuania finished automatically, without having to think. 

America was looking at him now, smile filled with wonder and joy. “You know Dickinson that well already?”

Lithuania nodded. Dickinson. That was the poet whose book America had given him. “Very much.” He paused for a moment, hesitating, and then continued quietly. “It’s beautiful, but also simple. Unpretentious.”

America grinned and nodding, looking back at the web as he leaned back against the bench. _“Neglected son of genius,”_ he concluded, _“I take thee by the hand.”_

To America’s side, the son was just beginning to dip lower in the sky, so that golden red light reflected off his messy blond hair and collected in little pools in his glasses.

For a few long moments, America watched the sun in the spider web. And Lithuania watched the sun in America.

He was observing the last faint, pink tendrils of the sunset from his bedroom window, when he began to seriously consider what everything said in that garden had meant.

He lay awake in bed for longer than he should, intently reading and rereading the book of poetry, trying to understand it on every level. It was as if he hoped to find in the dead woman’s pages the answers to everything.

At least, the long-dead American was better company than Russia, who seemed to creep back into Lithuania’s thoughts with the coming of night. America had been able to keep the apparition of memory at bay, but now, in his absence, Lithuania was left alone and vulnerable, with only the ghost of Dickinson between him and Russia.

Eventually, Lithuania gave in. He looked out the window at the bright sliver of moon and remembered.

* * *

“Toris, it’s your turn.”

Lithuania shook his head slightly and turned from the window. He glanced over at Russia, who was smiling patiently with his chin resting on one hand, and then down at the hand of cards in front of him.

It wasn’t a very good one. There were very few cards higher than a jack, and those were concentrated in clubs. He had only one trump card, a seven of diamonds. He had no spades to speak of.

The quality of the hand didn’t matter much to Lithuania. He knew that Russia would win, because it was Russia’s game, and that made Russia very happy. The old nation was in one of his ‘up’ phases, cheerful and optimistic, without a hint of madness. He suggested the card game to Lithuania with the gleeful enthusiasm of a child, something Lithuania was more than glad to indulge, if it prolonged Russia’s good mood.

Needless to say, Lithuania preferred this version of Russia to his alternate darker, sadistic side, though he didn’t like the way that it put him on edge.

Waiting for the blow to fall.

Silently, Lithuania fished a jack of hearts out of his hand and slid it across the table.

Russia smiled at the card for a moment, and then looked back at his own hand. “Is it nice?” he said suddenly as he placed a queen of hearts gently over Lithuania’s jack.

“What?” Lithuania took his only queen—of clubs—out of his hand and played it.

“The other world you were just visiting.” Russia smiled, beating Lithuania’s queen with an ace. 

Lithuania hesitated for a moment, then smiled and nodded. “Done,” he added, pushing the pile of cards to the side, then ordering them in a neat pile and adding them to the stack of discards that had grown swiftly over the course of the game, though not quite so swiftly as the contents of Lithuania’s hand.

“Not nicer than here, though,” Russia continued as he followed Lithuania in drawing enough cards to return his hand to six. “What could be better than our house, with all of our friends?” He smiled and played a nine of trump.

Lithuania returned the smile, but it was hollow, going no further than his lips. Nothing in his hand could beat the nine. He reached down to pick up the card to add it to his hand.

Russia’s hand came down solidly on top of his own, thick fingers wrapping around Lithuania’s wrist, not tight enough to hurt, but enough to hold him still. The taller nation was looking down at him steadily, expectantly.

Lithuania knew the words he wanted. He tasted pride, acrid and familiar, at the back of his throat, but swallowed it down as he always did.

“I accept.”

Russia’s smile widened, and he let go of Lithuania’s hand. Silently, Lithuania added the card to his hand and then held it close in front of his face.

“There is nowhere nicer than here,” Russia burbled pleasantly.

Lithuania remind silent, but eyes drifted over to the open window, and the weak sunlight battling its way though the gunmetal gray clouds.

* * *

_Seventeen days. You’ve been away from Russia for seventeen days._

Lithuania kept repeating the figure in an attempt to impress himself. He couldn’t get that excited though.

The Soviet Union still stood, weakened, moribund, but not dead. At least, his brothers and most of his friends were free. Or, as free as they could be, so near to Russia.

He broke out of his reverie to make the last snip of the scissors. In the mirror, he watched the small lock of hair fall onto the white towel on the sink.

Lithuania took the second towel from around his neck and shook out his hair, smiling at the simple pleasure of being able to take care of himself again. Once he was feeling healthy enough, he had showered and shaved, washing the last trace of captivity from his body. Now, he had the chance to cut his hair back to its normal length, something he had been too busy for in weeks. 

He cut it in his usual way, long enough to hold most of it in a ponytail while he worked, but enough to fall in front his face in the front. That way, he could always have a curtain between himself and the world when he wanted.

Lithuania sighed and turned to his old pile of clothes. As he was picking up his shirt, he happened to catch sight of his back in the mirror. His smile disappeared, eyes fixed on the mirror. After a few moments, he realized that he had forgotten to blink.

Nations were full of scars. No country survived for centuries, decades even, without their flesh becoming a roadmap of war. Lithuania wasn’t unfamiliar with injuries, others or his own. Blood didn’t make his stomach turn.

But, his back…

He had been intimately aware of the bite of Russia’s whip as it sliced its way into his skin, but now to see the whole story written out was a different feeling, a lingering one.

He could feel Russia’s hand pressing against his flesh, could feel the cold, metallic breath in his ear.

_Let me see your pretty face, Toris…_

Lithuania shut his eyes. _Go away, Russia. Go lord over your dying Union. Leave me alone._

But, Russia was still there, in the mangled red and purple welts stretching from his shoulders to his hips. Russia would always be there.

“Hey, Toris!”

Lithuania started, dropping his shirt and turning to face the door. “Y-yes, Alfred?”

“Oh, nothing,” America said from the other side of the door. “It’s just… you’ve been in there a while, and… I was just… I’m not checking in on you. I mean, you don’t need… but… yeah.” He finished with an awkward laugh.

“I'm fine, Alfred,” Lithuania said calmly. “I’ll only be a second.”

“That’s cool. Take as long as you need. Just wanted to make sure you didn’t… I dunno. Jump out a window or something.”

Lithuania laughed. “I’ll just clean up and get dressed.”

“Okay. Once you’re out, maybe we can watch a movie, or listen to some records or something.”

“That sounds nice. Thank you, Alfred.”

“I’ll leave you to it.”

Lithuania smiled to himself, as he turned back to the mirror and gently pulled on his undershirt. It stung slightly against the aggravated wounds, but Lithuania forced himself not to think about it.

He was staying with America now. America was his friend. Not controlling him, just helping him in an hour of need. He and America were going to listen to old records and reminisce and laugh and America would look beautiful as the sun hit his blond hair.

And Russia would leave him alone.

* * *

Lithuania could hear Russia stumbling down the hall, drunkenly knocking against the walls, slurring indistinctly. Bound hand and foot to the cold, metal bedframe, Lithuania could do nothing but hold his breath and hope that Russia passed by his door.

He shut his eyes and tried to will it to be so. Then, he heard the footsteps pause, then a few moments of heavy breathing, and then the door opened.

_No. I’m asleep. Go away…_

“Toris,” Russia whined.

Lithuania was silent, still keeping up the pretense, though it seemed hopeless. Russia stumbled further into the room and the bed shook as he slumped onto the mattress. Lithuania could smell the alcohol coming off of Russia, as thick as if he were sweating the stuff.

“Toris!” Russia repeated. Lithuania heard the slosh of liquid in a bottle, and then Russia swallowing clumsily.

Hesitantly, Lithuania opened his eyes. Russia was sitting sprawled on Lithuania’s bed. One hand was holding his red, bleary face, the other clutching the neck of a half-empty vodka bottle. The large nation shook as he took another swig.

“It’s all over,” he slurred, swinging out wildly with the arm holding the vodka. Lithuania winced and shut his eyes and drops of alcohol rained onto his face and chest. “All of it.”

“Mr. Russia…” Lithuania said quietly.

Russia looked down at him and Lithuania’s voice failed him even as his heart rate jumped upwards. The vodka bottle dropped from Russia’s fingers, and the other country leaned over him heavily, so that his round, red face dominated Lithuania’s vision. He could see the tears gathering in the corners of Russia’s eyes. Lithuania’s own eyes began to water as Russia’s reeking breath washed over him in sickly wave.

One of Russia’s hands clumsily wrapped around Lithuania’s head, tangling a few strands of hair around his thick fingers.

“Y’have such pretty hair, Toris,” he muttered.

Lithuania wondered if he could bring Russia down with a well-placed knee to the abdomen. It might work, but then there was still the problem of his bound legs. He might have a chance if he could get to the vodka bottle, break it, and use it to the cut the cord. That plan would only work if he could continue to disable Russia in the process though.

There was far too much might in the idea.

Russia continued slurring, playing with a bit of Lithuania’s hair as he did. “They’re coming.”

“Who’s coming?” Lithuania breathed.

Russia ignored him. “He’s coming, an’ he’s gonna wreck everything. He’s going to break us apart.”

Lithuania stiffened in excitement as an irrational idea forced itself into his brain. _Rescue!_

He quickly tamped down those high hopes, and concentrating on not upsetting the drunken nation above him.

Russia coughed and mumbled something in a high, unintelligible whimper. “I tried,” he whined, pressing a hand into his forehead. “I tried so hard. I wanted to make everyone happy, but everything went wrong. I just want him to go away.”

His hand dropped and he looked back to Lithuania, who tried to sink further into the cushions. Russia stroked his cheek, trying to be gentle, but clumsily digging his fingers into Lithuania’s skin.

“Yer so pretty, Toris,” he slurred.

“Mr. Russia, please,” Lithuania began. His every instinct was screaming danger at him, but there was no way to get away from Russia. He could only tug uselessly at the bonds around his wrists ankles.

Russia smiled, washing Lithuania in alcohol and making his head swim. “Don’ worry, Toris. I won’ let ‘im get you. I won’ let him take you away.”

“Russia, let me go!” Lithuania shouted, fear erupting through all of his usual caution. He was an independent nation and now rescue was visible on the horizon. And he wasn’t going to let Russia take it from him. 

“I won’ let you leave,” Russia continued, voice growing in garbled volume. “He doesn’t get to have you.”

“Russia—!” Lithuania was cut off mid-breath as Russia’s hand suddenly slammed down over his nose and mouth.

Panic smashed into Lithuania’s chest. He thrashed and struggled, back arching off of the bed, as he struggled to breathe through Russia’s thick, cold fingers. Russia leaned heavily over him covering Lithuania’s small body with his massive one, pressing down so hard Lithuania thought his skull was going to crack open like an egg.

He needed air. Needed it with an unthinking, animal desperation. He tried to bite down on Russia’s fingers, but they eluded his gnashing teeth. The red grimacing face above him began to fade to static and white lights popped across his vision, as he screamed as loud as possible around the hand.

Instant, joyous relief flooded through him as Russia’s hand was removed and he gasped on sweet oxygen. He only had time to choke down a few urgent breaths, before a pillow was crushed down onto his face.

Now, he couldn’t see, breathe, or move. His cries for help faded to pathetic, barely audible whimpers, as his lungs screamed their need for air.

He couldn’t struggle any longer, a leaden feeling settling over his limbs. His head felt heavy and fuzzy, as if his skull was filled with cotton. The pain began to fade from his lungs. It was like going to sleep.

 _This is the end,_ he thought detatchedly. This was how he was going to die. Bombs must have been falling on his land at this moment. Russia was destroying him, his people, his culture. This was what it felt like to be totally crushed and subsumed.

Words sprung to his mind automatically. Mindlessly familiar words recited without meaning, comforting and desperate at the same moment. 

_Almighty and Everlasting God, preserver of souls, who dost correct those whom Thou dost love…_

History floated lazily around his mind, all those past triumphs that meant nothing. He was never going to see his brothers again, not Estonia’s quiet dignified grace or Latvia’s nervous little smile. He would never hear Poland giggle at something stupid.

He would never see America.

_Too tired. Warm. Dark. Going to sleep now…_

He heard the loud bang, muffled as if coming from the other end of a long tunnel, but took a moment to connect the sound to what it meant.

“Get the fuck away from him!” he heard someone scream.

_Someone… I know that voice!_

The pillow was suddenly removed from his face and air and light rushed back to Lithuania. All other concerns immediately became secondary to the simple goal of getting oxygen into his starved, abused lungs.

He could hear people shouting at each other and stumbling around. Everything was still white and dizzy, careening wildly around his prone form.

Then, he felt a hand on his cheek, gently pressed against the overheated skin.

“Toris!” the familiar, other voice called to him frantically. “Toris, stay awake. It’s going to be okay. Just stay with me!”

He wanted to follow the voice’s instructions, wanted to stay with his savior, but sleep was closing in around him, heavy, undeniable.

“Toris…!”

_…We call upon Thee, O Lord, to grant Thy healing, that the soul of Thy servant, at the hour of its departure, may be delivered…_

_I’m sorry._

_Sleep._

* * *

The spider sat contentedly in the middle of it massive, silvery web, the full moon reflecting off of its smooth, yellow body. Lithuania watched it with hypnotic fascination as he sat curled into a tight ball on the stone bench among the rose bushes.

America’s poetry book sat on the bench next to him, small and unassuming for all of the dark thoughts it had provoked in him, thoughts that had chased him out of his warm room and into the cool night of the garden.

His back was aching again. The fresh wounds had flared up during dinner as he and America were finishing up their last bites of apple pie, as if his body felt he was getting too close to forgetting. He spent the rest of the even with his back arched awkwardly in an attempt to avoid his shirt coming into too much contact with his torn skin.

Sleeping on his stomach proved useless. At one point, his face rolled over into the pillow, and when he briefly couldn’t breathe in, he snapped up and screamed in terror. 

After rationality returned, he sat in the darkness, listening desperately for any sign of America being woken.

Even as he sat on the stone bench, self-disgust gnawed at his stomach. He was a warrior. Before partition, he and Poland had been able to hold their own against Prussia, Turkey, even Russia. 

So, what was he now?

Lithuania placed his hand on the poetry book, running a finger along the neat edge of the cover, feeling every fray in the binding. 

_Stop being ridiculous,_ a voice inside his head, which sounded very much like America’s, chided him. _You’re free. It’s not perfect, but you’ve got more working in your favor than you’ve had in a damn long while. So, just admit that you’re scared as hell of Russia, and start moving on._

_But, it’s so hard, when I feel like Russia is breathing down my neck every second._

_Okay, calm down. Deep breaths._

In attempt to quiet his internal dialogue, he picked up the book and flipped through it absently, not really focusing on any of the contents. He had read all of the poems already. Twice. Some of them more. Every word of it made him feel closer to America, and the other country’s bold, sunny optimism.

_Ah, good. You’re already swimming in self-pity, and now you dwell on your unrequited love for your rescuer. That’s a wonderful idea._

Yes, sarcasm, his familiar companion of centuries, whenever he was really in trouble. The rescue had rekindled his crush on America from his time as housekeeper, was now burning steadily and had no sign of stopping, rationality be damned. 

However, acting on that fleeting, assuredly unrequited impulse would, he knew, be an utterly foolish thing to do, particularly so soon after his leaving Russia. How did he know that he wasn’t just “in love” with America, because of gratitude at his release from the Soviet Union?

 _I know,_ something inside his head whined desperately. _I want to be with him. He’s beautiful and kind and he cared about me enough to come after me even when Russia was threatening death and doom. When I stayed with him, there was warmth and we laughed all the time and he was treated with respect._

_I love him._

_…Stupid._

Lithuania sighed and pressed the book tightly to his chest, looking tiredly down at his worn boots.

“Toris!”

Lithuania started, dropping the book and nearly falling over the bench as he whirled to face the source of the voice.

America was standing in the path by the rosebush, looking down at Lithuania in concern. He was dressed in a set of flannel pajamas, under the ever-present leather jacket.

“Sorry,” America said quickly. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I just… woke up and I saw your coat was gone. I, um, I was worried I guess.”

Lithuania felt a surge of guilt both at being a disruption and at the nature of his thoughts before America’s arrival. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to bother you.”

America shrugged and gave a slow smile. “Hey. Don’t worry. I get up in the middle of the night a lot of the time too.” He walked over and sat down heavily on the bench next to Lithuania. “So, what brings you out here tonight?” he joked.

Lithuania echoed his smile. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Yeah, me neither. Sometimes you just need to clear your head, though.” He cocked his head thoughtfully at Lithuania. “Aren’t you cold?”

Lithuania shook his head. His smile widened. “My land’s colder than yours, remember?”

America snorted. “I think you mean ridiculously colder.”

Lithuania broke out laughing. America suddenly reached over and grabbed his hands, pressing them tightly between his own.

“See,” he said. “You’re cold as ice.”

Lithuania couldn’t imagine why America would think that. He felt like he was burning up. Trapped in America’s steady, gentle grasp, his hands were almost painfully hot. He had to resist the urge to pull away, to hide his reaction from America.

The other country was still smiling softly at him. “You look a lot better than when I first found you. You’re not as skinny or pale. And you’re smiling.” He looked away and laughed awkwardly. “I missed you smiling when you left.”

Lithuania opened his mouth, but couldn’t think of anything to say. He filled the silence with short nervous laughter. 

After an awkward, cricket chirp filled moment, America began, “Lithuania, I don’t think I’ve really told you how glad I am to have you back. I guess this is as good a time as any to try.”

“Oh, don’t worry, it’s—”

America stopped him. “Hey,” he smiled, “let me finish.” He took a deep breath. “Okay. Toris, I really like you.”

Lithuania’s eyes widened and his breath quickened. “Alfred—”

“Let me finish,” America interrupted again. He exhaled anxiously. “Man, this is hard. Okay. Here.” He leaned in and pressed his mouth to Lithuania’s open, questioning lips.

_Oh…_

America pulled back quickly, chewing on his lip. “I think you’re really beautiful, Toris, and smart and fun, and I want to go out with you.”

Lithuania was aware that he must have been staring stupidly, but he couldn’t make himself stop or say anything halfway intelligent.

America made it seem so simple. Go out with me. All Lithuania had to do was say yes and all of this angst and unrequited longing would be over and done with. He could live in the warm, glowing light of America’s optimism forever. He could enjoy America, without Russia hanging over his head, informing all of his decisions.

Yes. Just say yes, you moron. Say yes…

America was peering at him intently, concern flickering in his blue eyes. “Toris? Oh, man, I’m sorry. I really didn’t… that was so stupid. It wasn’t fair, and you’re, like, allowed to shout at me or kick me, or whatever you want. I’m really sorry, and—”

“Yes!”

Lithuania was just as surprised by the outburst as America looked. He felt immediately nervous and looked down at his hands, still held tightly in America’s grip. One of America’s fingers was gently stroking along Lithuania’s knuckle.

He swallowed. “I’d like to…” The words sounded silly even to himself. “…Go out with you.”

The grin practically exploded across America’s face. “Oh, God, that’s great, Toris!” He dropped Lithuania’s hands, but only to jump forward and pull Lithuania into a tight hug, burying his face into Lithuania’s neck. Lithuania’s heart was pounding so hard he almost felt dizzy. He wrapped an arm around America’s back and fisted his hand in America’s jacket.

“I’m sorry,” he said without thinking.

America pulled back slightly and looked Lithuania in the eyes. “Why are you sorry?”

“I just… I’m sorry I’ve been so…”

America shrugged. He placed a warm hand on Lithuania’s cheek, buried his fingers in Lithuania’s hair. “It’s no problem. I understand.”

“…I’m trying to forget Russia, but I can’t. It’s…”

“It’s okay,” America said softly, his face intense. “I’ll make sure that he never touches you again. I swear.” America’s look of brave assurance faltered. “He… hurt you.”

It wasn’t a question, but Lithuania nodded. “It got worse at the end. He didn’t want me to leave. Thought he could, I don’t know, beat patriotism into me.” He smiled wanly, but stopped when he caught sight of America’s expression.

“Toris…” he began in a quiet, pained voice.

“I’m fine,” Lithuania assured him. He found America’s free hand and wrapped his fingers around it. “Or, I will be fine. I- I don’t really know where to go from here, Alfred. I’ve been in Russia’s house for a long time.”

His voice dropped down as he admitted ruefully, “Sometimes I forget that I’m not still there.” He smiled. “But, then I remember you’re sleeping in the next room, and I feel safe. Remember when I worked for you and we used to sleep in the same bed?”

America nodded, a smile creeping into the corner of his mouth.

“I thought about that a lot when I was with Russia. You… I guess what I’m trying to say is thank you, and I’m sorry if I take a while to get used to being safe again.” Lithuania looked away awkwardly, only chancing a furtive glance to see how America was reacting to his long, tangled speech. 

The younger country was still smiling, holding Lithuania’s hand and cheek. “That’s okay. Really, we can go as slow as you want. I’m just… glad that you’re back and that I have you with me.”

“Me too.” Lithuania laughed quietly to himself.

“What?” America asked, laughing by reflex.

“You’re so sweet,” Lithuania said.

“Oh, well…”

“I like it,” Lithuania said quickly. Putting aside any lingering nervousness, he slid closer to America, until their thighs pressed together. Lithuania rested his head against America’s shoulder and sighed contentedly.

“Hey, Toris?”

“Hm?”

“If you’re feeling up to it, do you want to go out for dinner tomorrow night? I know somewhere, you know, out of the way.”

“That would be nice,” Lithuania murmured. He felt suddenly exhausted, as if he hadn’t slept for days. To curl up by America’s warmth and sleep, without fear, seemed ideal.

He briefly felt America shifting around and then there was something warm being pressed around his shoulders. Blinking and looking around, he saw America’s leather jacket wrapped around his back. America was tugging the jacket closer around his chest, smiling warmly down at the other nation.

“Can’t wait,” he said quietly, and pressed a gentle kiss to Lithuania’s forehead. “Promise, I’ll be an amazing boyfriend.”

Lithuania laughed. “I bet,” he said sincerely. He laid his head back on America’s shoulder and stretched. “Alfred?”

“Yeah, Toris?”

“Could you kiss me again?” he asked quietly, looking up and curling his legs closer under the jacket. 

“Sure,” America answered with a little nod. He leaned down and pressed his lips gently to Lithuania’s. Their noses fit together and they moved softly against each other.

The zipper of America’s jacket scratched against his throat. He could feel warmth settling deep into the pit of his stomach.

It was so wonderfully simple. Easy, childish gestures like dates and an oversized jacket keeping him warm. America made everything easy. He didn’t have to fear and doubt everything as he had with Russia.

America was simple, nice, not trapped in bitter absolutes. 

Lithuania could live with that.

* * *

It took him a while, but eventually America made himself remember that Lithuania wasn’t made of glass. They could laugh and joke and go into the open, without the smaller nation coming apart at the seams. Once he was back on his feet, at a normal weight, he began to return to the sweet, eternally cheerful Lithuania that had been his friend in the roaring twenties.

One brief, casual dinner date turned into a regular night out. When they weren’t working, either on America’s affairs, or helping Lithuania get back on his feet, they would sit together, watching old movies or records. Lithuania started cooking for America again, though he had to give up on any effort at teaching him the skill.

And, when they eventually slept together, it turned out to be America who was more nervous about getting something wrong, with Lithuania taking the role of repeatedly assuring him that everything was all right.

Their relationship was quiet and private. Following Lithuania’s lead, America didn’t go out of his way to hide the fact that he was going out with Lithuania, but also didn’t go bragging about it to England, Japan, Italy, anyone who would listen, as he desperately wanted to. With all of the chaos surrounding the slow, agonizing crumpling of the Soviet Union, both of them had bigger problems to contend with, for the moment at least

Forty-five days after Lithuania achieved independence from Russia, he let America touch his scars.

It began as America casually suggesting that they take a bath together, then tensing in mortification as he remembered how insecure the older nation still was about the marks on his back, still thick, angry, and as red as Russia’s flag.

Sometimes, he saw Lithuania sitting stiffly, with his back arched, and knew that the wounds were bothering him again.

By common consent, he didn’t mention it aloud.

This time, however, Lithuania looked at him thoughtfully for a moment, and then smiled.

“Sure. That sounds nice.”

America sat awkwardly on the edge of the full, steaming bath, still dressed in his bathrobe. Lithuania entered a moment later. He wore a robe of America’s, huge and billowing, with one sleeve falling off of a pale shoulder. A small smile touched the corner of his lips.

As America made himself echo the smile, Lithuania slowly crossed the room and sat down on the bath next to America. For a moment, they just looked at each other, America’s insides twisting with awkwardness. Everything was done so carefully and solemnly, it reminded him of one of Japan’s ceremonies.

“So,” America said, desperate to break the silence. “Do you want to… uh?” He put his hands on Lithuania’s shoulders.

Lithuania smiled. “Sure.” He turned around slightly as America slid the robe off his shoulders.

He managed not to make a sound at the sight of Lithuania’s back, despite the sympathetic pain that rushed through him. Lithuania quickly finished taking his robe off, and America did the same. He followed the older country’s lead again as they both slid into the bath, Lithuania settling in front of America, who sat on his knees in the tub. 

The bath was hot, and steam filled the air. The steam had a calming effect on America. He exhaled softly and moved close to the Lithuania’s smaller form. “Do they hurt?” he asked quietly. His voice was mostly concerned, but he thought he couldn’t conceal a dark hint of morbid interest.

Lithuania either didn’t notice or didn’t mind. “Not now,” he answered calmly. “They don’t hurt much anymore.”

“Damn it,” America muttered to himself, eyes fixed on a long, ragged gash stretching across Lithuania’s lower back. 

“What…?” Lithuania glanced at him over his shoulder.

“Him,” America said clearly. Lithuania’s silence made it clear that both of them knew whom the nation being spoken of was. “I swear, every time I see him now I want to tear his throat out.”

“You shouldn’t,” Lithuania said. “He… I don’t think he really understands. At least, not all of the time.” He shifted around in the water slightly, pulling his legs closer to his chest, and his chin closer to his knees. “He wants everyone to be one big, happy family, and he can’t understand why we aren’t. That’s why he acts… like he does. The world doesn’t make sense to him anymore.”

“That’s no excuse.”

Lithuania shrugged. “Maybe not,” he sighed, curling further into himself. “It’s what I tell myself, though.”

This conversation wasn’t going anywhere helpful, America could see clearly. “Well,” he began brazenly. “It doesn’t matter. He’ll never lay a finger on you again. I won’t let him.”

“I know you won’t,” Lithuania said sweetly, with absolute assurance, absolute trust.

America wasn’t sure what to say. His mouth hung open stupidly, and he could practically see Lithuania’s quiet, little smile even though his face was turned. Finally, America just reached out and stroked Lithuania’s hair, running his wet fingers through the soft, brown locks.

“You’ve got beautiful hair, Toris,” he said lightly.

Lithuania’s shoulder’s jerked suddenly. America drew his hand away, racing to figure out what he had done wrong, how he had hurt the wounded nation before him. 

After only a moment, Lithuania let out a long breath and his shoulders straightened.

“Toris…?” America asked quietly.

“I’m fine,” Lithuania said, smiling wanly at America over his shoulder. “I… remembered something. It’s gone now. Please, do that again.”

America did his best not to dwell on whatever dark memory had been dredged up by his thoughtless comment. Hesitantly, he reached up and ran his hand through Lithuania’s hair again. Lithuania sighed and leaned into the touch.

Heartened, America picked up a washcloth and dunked it in the water, before ringing it out over Lithuania’s head, just to see the warm water roll over the silky hair and down over his shoulders.

Lithuania laughed as America rubbed the washcloth against his neck, feeling steady, but delicate muscles writhing under his fingertips, occasionally dipping back into the water when the cloth went dry.

The cloth began to move lower, down from his neck, to his shoulders, sliding onto his back, but Lithuania didn’t object, humming tunelessly and running his hands through the water.

America began to wash the scarred flesh. He felt the uneven bumps and divots in Lithuania’s skin, the lingering marks of a whip or boot heel. Some of the lashes were still red and inflamed, but Lithuania only sighed again as they were touched.

As he moved over the seemingly endless map of abuse, America wished with an almost physical desire that he could erase them. That some brave act or noble sacrifice could make any reminder of his lover’s torture disappear.

But, he knew that was impossible. All that he could do was clean the scars, kiss them, touch them, cover them, and watch them heal as well as they ever would. Ever could.

When he had felt every inch of Lithuania’s skin, America dropped the washcloth into the cooling water. He wrapped his arms around Lithuania’s thin, chest, pressed his scarred stomach to the even more scarred back, and placed his chin on Lithuania’s shoulder.

Lithuania turned slightly, just enough to press his lips to America’s. He tasted clean and cool.

They kissed until the water became uncomfortably cold. America lifted Lithuania out of the bath and sat him on the counter and dried him like a baby, while Lithuania let him, because he knew it made America happy.

America walked hand-in-hand with Lithuania to the bedroom. They curled up on the bed, under the clean blankets and sheets, Lithuania’s body pressed into the hollow of America’s, equal parts chaste and erotic at once.

Lithuania’s hair was still damp, smelling of soap and bathwater. America felt it leave wet streaks on his throat as he and Lithuania spooned like teenagers.

An exhilarating thought was rumbling through him, warm and exciting: this could work. It was just possible that nothing, himself included, would throw this off the rails.

It wouldn’t be perfect. He wasn’t enough of a child to still think that. They would have their beloved hours, and their sharp pittances of years, the keen and quivering ration.

But, it could work. He would make Lithuania the best that he could be again, and Lithuania would do the same for him. 

He didn’t need to fix Lithuania. Because, this was fixed. As fixed as it ever was going to get.

They could live with that.


End file.
